In the Shadows
by BelleLeisha
Summary: When Sherlock returned from the dead, he had a lot of explaining to do. In the rebuilding of his old life, one crucial detail slipped his mind.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock knew he was going to be fuming. It was a long time to wait, a long time to accept Sherlock had left him alone. He was sitting in the corner of his room, cast into shadow by the drawn curtains and dim desk lamp, providing the rooms only light. Sherlock didn't question this, the man needed a shield of some kind, the feeling was familiar to him.

"Two months. Fucking hell, Sherlock." He sighed, not even managing to sound convincingly angry.

The defeated, disappointed tone was even worse.  
"I know, I'm sorry, I really didn't mean for it to take this long." Sherlock told him, finding no discomfort in his offered apology. His 'death' had changed his sense of pride and vanity, somewhat.

"You intended for it to take _some _additional time though? Forgive me if I did not factor that into the equation!" The reply came, anger rumbling with more conviction.

"Look, there were things I had to do, you know that." Sherlock tried, relieved to find they were having an argument, which seemed to lend itself to a possible reconciliation at least.

"While you were _dead_, Sherlock!" The will to sound angry had once again outweighed the actual anger.

Sherlock reminded himself that his obvious offence, yet will to be angry, were both understandable.  
"…Yeah, I know I've overstepped a line here."

There was a hollow laugh from the shadows.  
"I don't know that that quite covers it, do you? Was there something I overlooked? Something I didn't do I should have done?"

Sherlock fought not to flinch at the question, the imploring confusion in his voice. He _knew, _Sherlock had never owed anyone else more.  
"_No, _never. You know all of this! I couldn't have asked for anything more, I didn't mean to leave you this long."

Desperation in his voice became almost tangible.  
"Then why did you? Don't tell me you had things to do, it would have taken a minute of your time, less, to explain."

"I just…I got caught up, I was used to not being able to tell the truth, I was distracted."

It sounded weak, even to Sherlock, it probably deserved the bitter response he received.  
"Of course you were, by more important people."

"Don't say that."

"Well is it not true, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. In the days before Jim Moriarty, Sherlock would never have brought himself to admit when he had simply erred. Not chosen science over human feelings, just messed up. Moriarty had changed everything, but Sherlock could not honestly say all the changes in him were for the worse.  
"No, it's not. I know I screwed up, okay, but it wasn't because you're not important enough! I shouldn't have made you wait a day longer than the others."

"And yet you left it sixty two days, to be precise."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. But what's two months on the end of three years, after all?"

Sherlock sighed. Therein, lay the problem after all. Those three years, were hard to forgive, but he could have done, because Sherlock had had no choice. The two months in which he had just failed to act, were different.  
"A step too far?"

He did not expect to see the other shaking his head and answering with a tone of resigned dismissal.

"No. Two months more than the ones who really matter, I can forgive."

"You _do _really matter!" Sherlock ground out. Forgiveness had been his goal, but it was not good enough, if it was given because he didn't believe he was worth better treatment at Sherlock's hands.

"Sherlock, despite the fact I was not among those you jumped off a building for, or those you had to let grieve for three years to protect, I really did believe that, once."

The gentle, almost understanding tone hurt in a way a once dead man didn't believe was still possible.  
"What do I have to do to make you believe it now?" He whispered, though he suspected he wasn't going to like the answer.

The other man stood up from his desk and stepped out of the shadows, revealing ugly bruising marring a once proud and handsome face. Three years, Sherlock had been in hiding, two months he'd been home. Two months, in which he'd neglected to tell a part of the story of his death. Two months, in which he had forgotten his was not the only shattered reputation he'd left behind. Two months, before his flatmate had run into his archenemy.

"Tell me why it didn't matter to you at all, that the most important man in your life, believed I betrayed you to your death."


	2. Chapter 2

"Did you know he was alive?" He asked, though he knew the answer really. If Mycroft had ever been fooled, he'd have worked it out in far less than three years.

"…Of course I did." Mycroft answered. For the first time in his life, he was both confused and failing to pretend otherwise. As he had been instrumental in the fake death plan all along, knowing Sherlock was still alive hadn't been much of a deduction.

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. Mycroft was a decent fighter, if forced to involve himself in such a base human drive, but he did not quite match John Watson. Mycroft observed the fist heading towards his face and the rather unfortunate fact it was adorned with a small silver ring, much faster than he could get out it's way. The ring bounced off his left canine with a sickening crunch, while the rest of John's fist sent him crashing to the ground in a most undignified manner.

Dazed, but beginning to realise what might have gone wrong, Mycroft shook off rising nausea and met John's furious glare.

"You betrayed him, you sold out your own brother to a psychopath and then you let him betray the only people in the world who care about him." John spat.

Mycroft had rarely seen anyone, let alone John, so angry. John had said most of this to him before, though he did not know or even suspect at the time, how badly it was all going to end. Mycroft and Sherlock did know, of course, though it took Mycroft longer to accept than Sherlock. The most dangerous man in Britain had wanted to detain Moriarty in the cell they'd interrogated him in. He believed without compunction, that a quiet bullet through the brain of an unarmed and contained lunatic was fair game, when Sherlock was his target. Sherlock had known they couldn't do that. Moriarty's reach went far beyond one man.

Mycroft pushed himself to his knees, wiping the blood off his lip and grimacing at the flare of pain telling him John had knocked one of his teeth out.  
"No, on all four counts." He muttered, anger beginning to burn through his veins, followed dizzyingly quickly by utter despair. John was wrong, but it wasn't his fault. Only Sherlock, could possibly have made an error such as this one.

Mycroft didn't have time to see whether John had heard what he'd said, or been able to count the four mistakes, as the former soldier caught him across the cheek with a powerful backhand. While Mycroft was down and stunned once more, John crouched over him and smacked him, hard, across the same cheek, fist closed this time.

Mycroft knew better than to try to fight him. Not, because he didn't stand a chance, that much was incidental beside the security force he could have with him in minutes if he were so inclined. He didn't fight, because John was one third of the reason for the jump off St Bart's roof. Mycroft was not going to risk Sherlock's sacrifice to prevent a few bruises. John had enough self control not to cause any worse damage than that.

He grabbed Mycroft by the lapels and pulled his shoulders off the floor, shaking him violently.  
"Every petty thing you told me about him, every childish thing he told me about you, meant nothing, he _trusted _you."

Mycroft could feel his eyes rolling back in his head. About seven different John's looked down at him, seeming to realise there was no longer much point in hitting him. It wasn't going to give him much satisfaction if Mycroft wasn't awake to feel it. He let go and stood up abruptly. Mycroft gritted his teeth and forced himself to attempt to get to his feet.

John stood over him while he closed his eyes, forcibly slowed down his breathing and pushed himself off the floor. His nose started bleeding in earnest.

"If anyone deserved to believe he was really dead, you did." John stated flatly, looking at him with such disgust, Mycroft was genuinely offended. Before he walked away, John gave one last parting comment, meant to hurt just as much.  
"He would _never, _have betrayed you."

How ironic, Mycroft thought to himself, struggling to his feet and flexing his jaw. If John's visit had done nothing else, it had let Mycroft know Sherlock had done precisely that.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd come home with bruised knuckles and a face like thunder. For the first time, an inkling he'd made a mistake, began to form in Sherlock's mind.

"What happened?" He asked, concerned by the thought of a fight John had been in, that Sherlock had not. It was ludicrous, really. In the years he'd travelled, far from those whose lives his endangered, they could all have been in any number of fights.

John ignored him at first, stomping through to the kitchen and punching the kettle on. Sherlock followed, observing his trembling hands. John got off on adventure, adrenalin being his drug of choice. Sherlock knew he couldn't be scared or shaken. Rage, then. His concern deepened.

"You've been in a fight." He stated. John looked up, but said nothing.

Sherlock took hold of his bruised fist, looking at it intently.

"…Well, not much of one, you hit someone, hard…No, wait, not hard but more than once, without them getting a single hit in. What happened?"

John told him then. He didn't use many words, nor did he seek any answers, but Sherlock felt his blood running cold at his statement.  
"I bumped into your brother today."

Sherlock stared, first confusion, but cold, sick confusion, followed by a flood of understanding and other things he didn't want to feel. In an instant, Sherlock remembered. He realised what John must have thought, what had happened as a result and more importantly, what he himself, had forgotten to do.

He left his flat immediately, texting with one hand, hailing a cab with the other.  
_"Mycroft, meet me in your office, fifteen minutes. S"_

He had no doubt, regardless of what exactly had happened, that Mycroft would oblige him. The thought that day, chilled him to the bone.

John's choice of words regarding his meeting with Mycroft, were strangely appropriate. Neither John nor Sherlock, had seen Mycroft since Sherlock's return. For John, that meant he hadn't seen him for a few months. While Sherlock had been gone, he'd occasionally seen Mycroft leaving Scotland Yard. The two hadn't spoken, nor had they been openly hostile. John simply did not have the energy to be angry, through grief. For Sherlock, it meant he hadn't seen Mycroft in three years and two months.

They had communicated of course, Mycroft had been vital in every part of Sherlock's fake death. Sherlock had needed help, even with his return home and what to expect when he got there. He'd called Mycroft before entering Baker Street. He wanted everything to go back to normal, instantly. He wanted to walk inside, explain what it had taken to win Moriarty's war and reclaim his former life. Mycroft had explained, patiently, that his friends were going to need time to adjust.

He'd been right of course, it had taken a week for John to stop flinching on site of him. He'd been overjoyed though, it had been messy and emotional and Sherlock had hated every second of it. He'd even found his own emotions hard to keep in check, in a way he had not been capable of, prior to Moriarty.

In amongst all of the time spent, easing himself back into other people's lives, all the explanations given, stories told and forgiveness sought, by him and from him, Mycroft had somehow slipped his mind.

They'd spoken, many times. Sherlock had needed to ask for advice more than once. He was better at that now too. Much to their mutual horror, they were almost getting along better because of it. What he had not done, was remembered that before he'd left, both he and Mycroft had ensured Mycroft was the leak, who put Sherlock in Moriarty's power. If Mycroft held the guilt of Sherlock's suicide, Moriarty's henchmen wouldn't think he was a threat. It gave him the best possibly chance, of watching over Sherlock's world, while he was gone.

Mycroft had, as expected, performed flawlessly. The problem was that on Sherlock's return, John had been consumed with the rage that grief had been preventing for three years. Had Sherlock remembered to explain everything, including how Mycroft had been by his side, one step ahead of the enemy from the start, John would have had nobody to take it out on.

Sherlock could not have foreseen their chance meeting, but he should have known John would not forgive his brother for the betrayal he believed he'd committed, three years and two months earlier. Even as he stood, absolutely lost for words in Mycroft's office, he knew the person Mycroft was going to be angry at, wasn't John.

"_Two months. Fucking hell, Sherlock.__"_


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock returned from Mycroft's office, he was pale and silent, features set in a deeply troubled expression.

John expected him to retreat to his room, or just to ignore him completely. Sherlock did neither. He sat down in his usual chair, looking up and meeting John's worried gaze.  
"Are you alright, John?" He asked, so quietly John almost missed it.

He knew he meant had he calmed down, from the level of anger he must have felt to have assaulted Sherlock's brother. John nodded mutely.

Sherlock lapsed into thoughtful silence. John let it lie for a few minutes, before he questioned warily.  
"Is Mycroft alright?"

There was another pause before, to John's surprise, Sherlock shook his head.  
"I don't know."

Sherlock caught the look of shock on John's face and shook his head again.  
"He's not injured, just bruised, but if he'd cared about that, believe me, he'd have stopped you."

Guilt was beginning to bubble and with it, John was getting angry again. He was _right _to be mad at Mycroft. He would never forgive the elder Holmes for his betrayal, especially now he knew Mycroft, unlike him, had not spent three years pointlessly grieving. Perhaps, he should not have unleashed his anger in such a manner, but walking past some official looking offices just as Mycroft was leaving, had been entirely unexpected. Mycroft had stopped, stared at him, read the inexorable fury in his eyes and quietly double backed, inviting John to join him.

"Sherlock…" John started, despite his feeling of vindication, needing to explain himself. "…I shouldn't have hit him. I'm sorry."

Sherlock cocked his head at him, questioning. John's eyes narrowed in sudden anger once more.  
"To you." He clarified. He was not sorry for Mycroft, in the slightest.

Sherlock smiled humourlessly and nodded.

"Don't be, John, it wasn't your mistake." He replied slowly. "It wasn't Mycroft's either, I'm afraid." He added, sounding regretful.

John frowned, confused as Sherlock paused again, still thinking.  
"What does that mean?" He prodded, becoming impatient in his unease.

Sherlock looked at him straight, no hint of admonishment, just guilt, in voice.  
… "I told you I knew before my suicide, what I'd have to do to stop Moriarty. It never occurred to me to explain precisely, how much was planned in advance."

John was still confused, unsure what Sherlock was trying to say. He shuddered inwardly at the memory of the night at St Barts, the much more recent day of Sherlock's return from the dead.

"Mycroft gave Moriarty my life story." Sherlock stated, still looking at John directly, discouraging the look of disgust John felt he would have given the statement. "But he did so because I told him to. Because we both knew the only way to beat Moriarty, was to let him think he'd won."

John's frown deepened, mouth opening in confusion, a half formed protest on his lips. He remembered Mycroft's feeble apology, all those years ago, when John and Sherlock were still running from the police. There had never been any question, Mycroft had done wrong, it had just taken an inordinately long time for John to get truly angry about it.

Sherlock went on before John could interrupt.  
"After the incident at the pool, Mycroft was spooked. Moriarty had gotten through his surveillance undetected. Mycroft used the Adler case as an excuse to arrest and interrogate him. Moriarty's fixation on me was made abundantly clear."

Sherlock paused, examining his nails. "Mycroft, came to me and…pleaded with me, to run and hide, essentially. In the end, I convinced him it was too late for that. I told him he had to feed Moriarty information on me, then release him, to give us a chance of bringing him to trial."

John had stopped listening. At least, he'd stopped registering Sherlock's actual words, while he stared at him in uncomprehending horror.

Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"We knew there was a good chance the trial would fail, Moriarty's power was obvious by then. It was also becoming clear he and his people would not stop, until I was dead, whoever they had to go through to get there. It didn't take a genius to know I had to die. Luckily, we had two geniuses. Between us we worked out a way for it not to be permanent."

John continued to stare in silence.

"When I came back, you guessed it was Mycroft who guided the rather flattering press reports, clearing my name. What you couldn't be expected to know was that all this time, I'd been forgetting to return the favour."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had dropped in on Mycroft, with John in tow, when the pair got home from Dartmoor. Earlier on in the case, Sherlock might well have gone to his Pall Mall home to yell at him, for sending Lestrade to spy on them. As it turned out, he actually went to offer begrudging thanks for Mycroft getting them into Baskerville.

Anthea answered Mycroft's door for him, Mycroft himself was pouring over some extremely official looking documents in his study, when Sherlock and John joined him.

John expected indignant protests, given he was clearly busy with something not meant for civilian eyes. Mycroft didn't even try to shuffle the papers out of sight. Instead, he looked up, staring at Sherlock, an utterly peculiar expression crossing his face.

It obviously wrong-footed Sherlock too, as he stopped before he could even start mocking his brother in his customary means of sincerely thanking him. Mycroft was gazing at Sherlock as though he'd never seen him before in his life.

"What?" Sherlock asked, surprise removing any trace of scorn from his voice.

Mycroft seemed to realise he was acting strangely, as he blinked suddenly, bleary eyed as he stood up.  
"Nothing, sorry…You escaped the Hound unharmed then?" He offered.

John and Sherlock exchanged a confused glance, before Sherlock shrugged.  
"Yes. Your omnipotence was much appreciated."

Mycroft smiled faintly.  
"And Henry Knight?"

"Has a good chance of finally moving on." John supplied, still utterly at a loss as to what on earth was wrong with Mycroft. His politician's mask had slipped back into place, but he was far from back to normal. He wasn't saying anything sarcastic or even…clever. He wasn't really saying anything at all.

"Good. Congratulations, Sherlock." He breezed, though his tone was forced. "My apologies, John, I didn't know his experiment would involve a human guinea pig."

John grinned at that, while Sherlock pouted.  
"Yes, well, thank you Mycroft." Sherlock told him, adopting his theatrical, overly polite tone to remove the embarrassment of his gratitude. "We'll be going-"

"Sherlock-" Mycroft interrupted. A hint of the glazed look returned to his eyes. "If you have a minute, soon, I need to talk to you."

He didn't specify he needed to talk to Sherlock alone, but there could have been no other reason he didn't just say whatever he needed to say there and then. Sherlock studied him carefully, while Mycroft merely stared back at him, unblinking. Eventually, Sherlock nodded and left, John trailing after him, with a vague feeling of unease.

"What was all that about?" John asked Sherlock, as they headed back to Baker Street.

"I don't know." Sherlock replied, the displeasure in his voice matching John's uncertain feeling.

Sherlock didn't speak again until they were back inside their flat. He paused by the mantel piece, staring at his skull.  
"Did you notice his hand?" He asked suddenly.

John wasn't sure what he meant for a moment.  
"Mycroft's? No, why?" He questioned, confused.

"His left hand was bruised. He also flinched when Anthea brushed his arm…" Sherlock explained. He cocked his head to one side and looked over at John. "What would cause injuries like that?"

John's immediate thought was that as he didn't know what kind of injuries they were, he couldn't really say. Another diagnosis sprung to mind almost as quickly though, because this was Sherlock. While he didn't know much about medicine, there was nothing he didn't know about crime.

"Bruising to the hands, indicates a fight…bruising to the upper arms would be a sign of restraint. He was in a fight, someone stopped him?"

Sherlock nodded silently.  
"He certainly hit someone hard enough to damage his hand. Whoever stopped him, needed to use enough force to bruise."

As Sherlock spoke, giving away no ideas he might have had, the way Mycroft had looked at Sherlock came back to John and a theory began to form in his own mind. He could think of only one person Mycroft would willingly get into a fight over. Mycroft had after all, almost allowed Irene Adler to 'bring Britain to it's knees', to cover Sherlock's blunder.

John wondered if the security breach at Baskerville had thrown up a problem for Mycroft. It was so unseemly to imagine him attacking anyone, let alone having to be forcefully dragged away. If it had happened, then it seemed most likely to have been in proximal defence of his little brother.

John suspected that saying any of this, would be something close to suicidal. Instead, he settled on a simple suggestion.  
"Whatever it was, he said he needs to talk to you. I guess you'll find out."


	6. Chapter 6

Most of the people around Sherlock, assumed he wasn't scared of Moriarty. Intrigued by him, excited by their rivalry, sensible of the danger he represented, but not afraid. Mycroft knew different. Once, if it was only once, Sherlock had shown he valued his own life, enough to fear for it.

Sherlock hadn't taken long to come to him after his request they talk. Mycroft knew he'd given away his own fear, so obviously, but on this occasion, he didn't care if Sherlock knew he was terrified. In fact, he needed him to understand why.

"We have Moriarty in custody." He stated without preamble.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, barely raising an eyebrow. Mycroft recognised the practised stoicism well.

"The Adler case, officially. Unofficially, it's in the public interest we discover what he wants, by any means."

Sherlock knew better than to ask what that meant. He waited for Mycroft to go on. Mycroft was staring at his shoes, but his voice was calm as he explained.  
"He's…obsessed, with you, Sherlock. He won't talk, unless it's about you and he doesn't need any prompting to do that. He's everything you already know; brilliant, psychotic, but now everything he is, is aimed at you."

Mycroft watched, as Sherlock wandered across the room and stared out of the window in silence.

"What happens next?" Sherlock asked, at last.

"We can't charge him. At the moment I'm contemplating a fatal accident."

Sherlock threw a disgusted glance over his shoulder. Mycroft shrugged.  
"I've covered up worse corruption."

"That, I don't doubt." Sherlock replied, turning back. "But it won't work, he alone, is not the problem. His web won't disappear if he does."

Mycroft nodded.  
"He isn't really what I wanted to talk about. I don't know what can be done about him."

Sherlock turned his head, but kept his back to Mycroft.  
"Meaning?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, stepping towards Sherlock determinedly.  
"Leave, Sherlock."

Sherlock visibly froze.

"There are limits, to his intelligence, they fall behind yours. There are even limits to his resources that might fall behind mine, but there are no limits whatsoever to his disregard for human life. His life and yours, most importantly. …_Please_, go somewhere out of reach, until he can be stopped."

Silence followed, the longest and most uncomfortable of Mycroft's life, Sherlock still staring out of the window. Had it not been for the one, single, entreaty, Sherlock would have laughed in his face.

At length, Sherlock turned and regarded Mycroft steadily.  
"I'm afraid, brother, it's too late to run or hide."

He didn't qualify the statement further. Mycroft didn't argue. He knew what Sherlock meant, he couldn't leave his friends in danger and Moriarty's web was flung too wide. Suddenly the brothers were shouting at each other; Mycroft wearing a trench in his carpet and Sherlock smouldering a hole in it's middle.

"RATHER A BEATABLE DETECTIVE THAN A BLOODY MERCENARY MYCROFT!" Sherlock raged, as Mycroft attempted to explain, he couldn't win.

Mycroft wasn't offended, but it convinced him Sherlock didn't understand what he was asking. He wasn't trying to find a means of defeating Moriarty. What Mycroft had to prevent, was more selfish and more simple.

_"HE WILL KILL YOU SHERLOCK!" _

Sherlock fell silent. Not from his words, but the ringing terror in his voice and Mycroft didn't care. Mycroft turned away, fear, frustration and hatred welling up.

A moment passed, before footsteps on the carpet brought Sherlock in front of him. Then he said two little words that brought an end to any hope Mycroft had, of stopping him fighting Moriarty.

"Help me." Sherlock said, simply.

Mycroft just stood, staring at him. Sherlock glanced at his hand, clenched at his side, observing the bruises.  
"Was it really that bad?" He asked, quietly.

There, under his dismissive blustering, was a moment of honest fear. He didn't want to know what Moriarty had said, to push Mycroft that far, but for a single moment, he let the thought visibly unnerve him.

Mycroft knew then, what he had to do. Helpless fear became his world.

"What do you need?"

"Our one advantage, is that Moriarty isn't going to shoot me." Sherlock rattled off immediately, brother gone, robot detective returned. "He's going to make this last. While he's playing his game, we can play too. We have to wait for him to commit a crime in progress, that he can be tried for."

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock knew Moriarty could fix a trial. His head started to ache as his heart couldn't sink any further. Sherlock knew if they could predict Moriarty, they were one step ahead.  
"Tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting."

Sherlock smiled grimly.  
"Mycroft, give him the information he wants, then let him go."


	7. Chapter 7

The cast of Moriarty's war, in order of appearance, turned to Mycroft gravely, before the chimes of midnight.

The day of the trial had been their chance to gain some information on at least, the scale, of Moriarty's plan. How obviously he drew attention to Sherlock had discomforted Mycroft greatly. It didn't fit a narcissist like Moriarty, to wish to share fame.

The day of the Hansel and Gretel kidnapping, was zero hour. Of course Sherlock solved the case, his mind had never been so sharp. He knew it was Moriarty and that somehow, it would connect to him. The little girl still spooked him.

The unwittingly compliant police officer, was the first to call.

"Inspector." Mycroft spoke into his mobile, keeping the accusation out of his voice with difficulty.

"Mycroft. Sherlock and John resisted, and indeed escaped, arrest."

"I'm aware of that. On whose authority did you attempt arrest?"

"The chief constable."

"Ah yes, the one with the newly broken nose." Mycroft mused with a grim smile. "Can I ask what you think is happening here, Lestrade?"

"Moriarty's trying to discredit Sherlock." Lestrade replied without hesitation.

"You worked this out?"

"No, Sherlock told me."

Mycroft smiled, loyalty seemed to surround Sherlock.

"Mycroft, what are you going to do?"

For his loyalty, Mycroft was compelled to honesty.  
"I don't know."

A few texts from Sherlock filled him in on Moriarty's plan, but by that point, Mycroft had a feeling he'd known for a while where this was all going to end. He turned his mind to an escape route for Sherlock, by any means necessary.

An angry, pompous member of parliament, was the second to question Mycroft.

"Holmes, why is your brother on our police wanted list, armed and dangerous?"

To a man who imagined himself in possession of more power than reality reflected, Mycroft lied.  
"I don't know."

Sherlock was frantic, when he finally called him from St Barts. He'd shaken off John and was busy working on the computer code.

"Mycroft, he's winning, he's _won. _I can't fight this."

"Just calm down." Mycroft responded firmly, wishing he felt quite so calm himself. "You knew he wasn't planning just to kill you, Sherlock. Who's in danger?"

It was then, Sherlock gave the response that prohibited Mycroft from doing so again.  
"_I don't know!" _He near wailed. Mycroft was talking in riddles.

Mycroft fought against the urge to tell him to run, for the second time.  
"_Think. _Sherlock. He wants to destroy you. Who is in danger?"

"…John. Mrs Hudson. …Lestrade."

Mycroft took a deep breath, frustrated beyond all reason he couldn't be of more direct help. He'd known from the start though, that this would all be on Sherlock, in the end. He would have to stand clear for the last moments of his brother's magnum opus.

"You need to direct Moriarty's next move. Find a meeting place you can control and call him there. He will try to end this there. Your goal is very simple, neutralise the threat, and _stay alive."_

He knew from the silence on the end of the line, Sherlock understood. The next move was his. Mycroft would cover his tracks once it was over.

Mycroft returned to the sitting room of his private quarters at the Diogenes club and stopped dead. Last but far from least, came the loyal doctor.

Mycroft felt nothing, at laying to waste his already fragile reputation, in the eyes of Sherlock's flatmate. Such a thing hardly mattered, compared to what Sherlock was facing. He did feel his guts churn as John left though. He believed he was all that stood between Sherlock and Moriarty now. The inevitable fall, would only hurt him more for it.

His gratitude for the role John had played in Sherlock's life, suddenly showed, when Mycroft very nearly blundered.  
"John…I'm sorry…"

John scoffed in near despair and Mycroft knew his mistake had gone unnoticed. He thought he meant he was sorry to Sherlock. That was true too really.  
_"Tell him, would you…" _He breathed, rather pointlessly. John was gone.

At the immense sadness that suddenly hit him, he took out his phone and sent one last aid to Sherlock. It occurred to him that not all of the cast, were so visible as Sherlock's three friends. As he himself, Sergeant's Donovon and Anderson, the Crown Court and the odious journalist, had played their roles, someone else must surely have a part to play.

Half an hour later, Sherlock would call him with news of victory. Moriarty was dead and Sherlock was about to jump off the hospital roof.

_'Sherlock. Molly Hooper. M.' _


	8. Chapter 8

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked, after what seemed like an extraordinarily long time.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. He hadn't answered the same question adequately for Mycroft, so he had little faith in his ability to do so for John.

He tried to think back, to work out himself, what it was about that detail that had passed him by in his many long explanations. It worried him, that he wasn't sure, because if he really had just forgotten, then was Mycroft right? Did he just not matter as much as the others?

The thought alone caused the heart he professed not to have to clench in his chest. He and Mycroft were unlikely to ever be friends; a situation which served them both well. He had been there, long before Lestrade, John, or even Mrs Hudson had. They'd remained part of each other's life, in a way no other member of their family had.

"It was three years John. It wasn't always easy to keep track of who knew what and which parts I did and didn't explain when I got back." He offered, aware it sounded as weak as every explanation he'd tried to give Mycroft.

John gave him a level stare.  
"_I _didn't know anything, Sherlock. I had to trust you to tell me the important parts."

The accusing note in his voice made Sherlock bristle somewhat. He was successfully holding back anger at his flatmate for his presumptuous actions against his brother as it was. After all, if Mycroft _had_ betrayed him, he would still not gain any satisfaction from John punching him. It was one of the very few times in which John punching Mycroft was not an idea which appealed to him.

"I know that." Sherlock replied briskly. "It was a mistake, as I said."

"So that's it is it, you made a mistake, no ramifications, just another thing you let me believe for three years?" John asked him, sounding weary, yet angry.

Sherlock's gaze snapped up and he glared at John, fury burning behind his cold grey eyes. The one thing he hadn't quite been able to fathom, no matter how many times Mycroft had tried to explain, was why the people he left behind, never seemed to register everything he'd done had been for them. Rather, than to spite them, as their reactions seemed more fitted to.

He understood, he couldn't let them grieve for him for three years and expect no bad feelings when he returned, but surely once they knew what he'd done…he didn't owe them anymore?

"The ramifications, John…" He began, a dangerous note in his voice. "Are very much the damage, emotional and physical, done to my brother. On this occasion, you will forgive me if I think I've apologised to you enough."

He was up and in his bedroom, door slammed behind him, before he could register the shock on John's face. He wondered idly, which part of his admonishment had come as a bigger surprise; his own anger, the reminder he'd apologised for every aspect - revealed and unrevealed - about the great hiatus many times over, or the suggestion Mycroft had emotions.

He wasn't rightly sure of that last part himself in fact. He had seemed what normal people would describe as 'upset', but maybe he had simply run to the end of the vast reserves of energy directed purely at his role as Sherlock's shadow.

He felt a familiar weariness starting to creep over him at the silence that had somehow followed him from the living room into his bedroom. Mycroft had been right, when he'd told him caring was never an advantage. He couldn't prevent himself hating the thought of John grieving for three years, but he simply could not continue to feel crippling guilt for it. It didn't help either of them, it served no useful purpose at all and he couldn't see how John's continuing anger did either.

He hadn't needed proof John cared about him. The day he punched the chief constable for insulting Sherlock, had been both touching and useful, as it meant Sherlock could bring John on the run with him, briefly. Visiting a similar punishment for Mycroft's imaginary crime, was in no way useful to anyone. It brought on the kind of feelings Sherlock didn't want to feel, double whammy of guilt. What made him snap at John, though he knew he shouldn't, was that he surely should understand, Sherlock hadn't had any choice, which meant he couldn't really be angry at him. Conversely, Mycroft had every right to be angry, but Sherlock didn't think he really was.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft heard a shuffling in the doorway, a visitor to the Diogenes guest room who knew the rules. He raised his gaze to silently greet the doctor, before moving through to the strangers room, knowing John was following.

"Did you count the four?" He asked, smiling slightly. John hoped the half hearted nature of his rather smug smile was because he was being insincere, rather than because the ugly bruising around his right eye and cheek, were too painful.

John blinked in confusion, before his expression cleared. The four counts on which he'd been wrong, according to Mycroft, seconds before he'd almost literally punched his lights out.

John struggled to remember exactly what he'd accused Mycroft of, in order to work out how many times he'd been wrong. He got to three, but couldn't quite work out what he'd missed. Mycroft hadn't betrayed Sherlock, one, he hadn't sold him out to a psychopath, two and as such, he hadn't let Sherlock betray the only people in the world who cared about him…three.

A wave of shame suddenly hit him as he realised.

"Didn't betray him, didn't sell him out to a psychopath, didn't let him betray the rest of us…" John mumbled, watching Mycroft warily. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "…And we're not the only people who care about him."

The slight jut of Mycroft's chin in response to this, had to be the only time John had ever seen the elder Holmes being openly possessive of his brother. An utterly inappropriate urge to laugh welled up in his chest. Mycroft smirked at him as he tried to suppress his stuttering laughter.

"Point well made, Mycroft, I'm sorry I was out of order." John choked when he had his laughter under control.

"Indeed, but it's not your fault. I'd say your loyalty does you credit, but you really are going to have to stop punching people on behalf of my brother." Mycroft replied smoothly. John wasn't sure whether he was joking or not.

"You'd have killed Moriarty for him." John argued, without thinking.

Mycroft's expression darkened and all trace of humour disappeared from his face.  
"As yet, I have found nothing that couldn't prefix the end of that statement, John. What I want to do and what has to be done, aren't always the same thing. You'd do well to remember it."

With that, Mycroft brushed passed the doctor into the main room, where he couldn't follow or at least, couldn't respond if he did follow. Mycroft no longer fancied the company of his silent fellow misanthropists, he continued out through the club doors and into his waiting car.

Once safely behind the tinted windows of his black Lexus, Mycroft buried his head in his hands and breathed deeply, trying to get his pounding heart under control. He had revisited the day he'd been dragged away from a blood spattered Moriarty many times, without John Watson's help. He'd never hated a human being, never been interested enough in one to bother hating any at all, like James Moriarty.

If everything he'd done, because of and in spite of Moriarty, had ever been undermined, it had to be by Sherlock's oblivious failure to inform John at least, his unofficial bodyguard, that his traitor's role had been a blind. He'd spoken the truth, when he told Sherlock he wasn't angry. He'd wanted to be, but as he'd said, he could forgive a simple oversight, it wasn't as though Sherlock had done it intentionally.

With the evidence that he had done it, whether intentionally or not, Mycroft felt suddenly lost. He'd thought when first Gregory Lestrade, then John Watson, entered Sherlock's life, that his role was getting harder to define. Lestrade got him clean, John kept him safe far more efficiently than Mycroft ever did. Good then, he could only think, Sherlock had found his way, albeit ten years later than most people's younger siblings did.

Mycroft had spent the many, many years since their youth, complaining bitterly about how much more difficult Sherlock somehow managed to make his life, and Sherlock's complaints to the reverse if anything, were even more consistent. Mycroft had to involve himself in Sherlock's life or else when he broke into top security Government facilities, he would just end up in jail, let alone be able to stroll back in a day later, fully authorised. War between them was, mostly, necessity.

Mycroft surely had no grounds to complain then, when it seemed their war was over.


End file.
